


At Last

by OhAine



Series: Simple Chemistry [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Light Angst, One Shot, Romance, Sherlolly - Freeform, Slow Dancing, mollock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-06
Updated: 2018-07-06
Packaged: 2019-06-06 09:07:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15191456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OhAine/pseuds/OhAine
Summary: Chances don’t last forever, or so I’ve been told.





	At Last

**Author's Note:**

  * For [satin_doll](https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/gifts).



> For Kat, who is a treasured gift in my life. Happy Whole-Birthday my dear ♥
> 
> Beta read by likingthistoomuch, aka my consulting enabler, but all mistakes are mine.
> 
> Based on the following prompt, which is a quote from Rick Riordan: “Just remember if we get caught, you're deaf and I don't speak English.”
> 
> Title taken from the song Sherlock and Molly are dancing to, 'At Last' by the one and only Etta James.

oOo

 

It’s probably a terrible idea.

Going to a wedding with someone is a very _girlfriend_ thing to do, and Molly Hooper is most definitely not his girlfriend.

But. It’s a formal reception, black tie and evening dress, and for the life of her Molly can’t remember the last time she had a reason to get her hair and make-up done, buy something new, and take herself out for the evening. So she accepts the invitation – if that’s what you’d call a text message in the middle of the night, less than twenty four hours before the event – and spends one whole mortgage payment on a posh frock (silk, draped, muted green) that she’ll never be anywhere fancy enough to wear again, just because the sales assistant’s jaw had – _quite literally_ – dropped to the floor when she put it on. She decides it’s worth every packed lunch she’ll be taking to work for the next month or three when Sherlock’s does the same.

The gold, strappy Jimmy Choo’s could be considered overkill, but they make her legs look long and sexy where the panels of her skirt split. There’s the added benefit too that they bring her up to slightly better than chin height with her dance partner.

Her hair is swept over her left shoulder, pinned at the back with a jewelled clip, meaning that as the band switches tempo, giving lovers, old and young, a chance to hold each other close, Sherlock’s breath whispers down the side of her neck when he rests his cheek on her temple: _even after all these years, being so close to him is still such a thrill_.

Early July, and London’s in the middle of a heatwave. Though the ballroom’s French doors are open, the swelter refuses to dissipate. The hotel is one of those old fashioned ones, the kind where old money stay when they’re in town. Lots of candles, lots of flowers. Table linens are a brilliant white, immaculate. Gilding – of which there is much – is subdued with age.

Watching the bride and groom as they dance, only having eyes for each other, part of her feels a strange sense of nostalgia for something she’s never had. A homesickness for a place she’s never been. Or maybe it’s just being with Sherlock that makes her feel that way. She takes a breath, tries to shake it off. Mostly she succeeds.

“Like it?” Molly glances down at her dress as they dance, she steps back and gives a little half-twirl, though Sherlock doesn’t let go of her hand.

“It’s—” he begins, pink-cheeked from heat, but abandons that particular train of thought as he pulls her back to him, pressing a long kiss to her head. “You look lovely.”

Blushing, Molly smiles, butterflies fluttering in her belly. _Dammit._ No amount of exposure has ever given her immunity to that velvet-smooth voice.

With one hand on her back – feather light but strong – Sherlock takes her right in his left and brings it to his heart. His skin is warm, smoother than she remembers, his long fingers gently wrap around hers. She’s not shaking, not exactly, but she’s losing some of her nerve – proximity to him has that effect on her sometimes – and there’s the barest hint of a tremor in her arms as she holds him, her posture just the wrong side of stiff. Sherlock’s completely fluent in the language of dancing, but Molly – _Dear Lord_ – she’s on his toes, kicking his shins…

“Perhaps,” he says looking down at his feet, puzzled by their lack of grace, “if you allowed _me_ to lead?”

“Sorry,” Molly says, mortified. “I went to an all girls’ school. The only time we got to dance was with each other. I’m used to being the one in charge.”

Sherlock waggles one raised eyebrow, barely supressing a grin. “Well that’s interesting. Any stories you’d like to share?”

“Oh for heaven’s sake,” Molly swats his shoulder playfully, eyes rolling but strangely at ease again. “What is it with men and convent schools? It was nothing like that.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

“You could make it up. I wouldn’t mind.”

Molly’s grateful that at least in this position he can’t see the way she flushes, or how she smiles. Really, he doesn’t need to be encouraged. “Starting to see now why it is you couldn’t find a date for this shindig.”

He rumbles a laugh, a sound that shivers its way down her spine. As they sway slowly to the music – perfectly in time now that she’s let him take control – his collar tickles her cheek, and she tries not to think about how effortlessly ravishing he looks in his black suit and crisp white shirt, how tall and graceful he is as he moves, and the way their bodies fit together so, so perfectly. Or even how nice it is to just _be_ with him, the two of them alone – God knows, that doesn’t happen much anymore.

There are two distinct parts to their friendship: everything that came before the day he met his sister, and the almost nothing that came after. It’s not his fault that they’re both adrift because of things they had no control over. He has his limitations, and she accepts them, just as he’s accepted hers. She loves him, still, but only as all forbidden things are loved, in private and in secret, even if sometimes she wishes—

 _But then –_ how does the saying go? _– If wishes were horses then beggars would ride…_

“Friends of yours?” she finally says, hoping it’ll distract her from the way he feels pressed against her and the memory of things she’d rather not revisit right now.

“Who?”

“The bride and groom?”

“ _Oh!_ No.”

“Family?”

“Nope,” he says, popping the p. “Never heard of them before yesterday afternoon. But I did overhear a guest saying that they met at the European forum for sign language interpreters in Germany two years ago. I had a Grandfather who was deaf as a post. Might have been genetic. It’s possible that during the war he sowed a few wild oats on the continent.”

Molly sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “This is for a case then?”

She can almost hear the crinkle of his nose in his voice. “If this is some sort of weird guessing game you’re playing, you should know that you’re completely rubbish at it.”

“Fine,” she relents. “Sherlock, what are we doing here?”

“Isn’t it obvious?”

“Clear as mud.”

“I felt like dancing.”

“Wait.” Molly pulls back and looks up at him, “Have we—? Do you mean to tell me we’ve gate crashed a wedding?”

“Knew you’d get there eventually.”

“Oh God. _Sherlock!”_

“What?!”

“We’ll get caught. They’ll call security and have us kicked out.”

“No they won’t,” Sherlock dismisses with a derisive snort. “But if they do, just remember you’re deaf and I don’t speak English.”

“Seriously? That’s what we’re going to say?”

“Why not? It’s entirely plausible given where the happy couple met.”

Molly lifts her hand from his shoulder and demonstrates her limited vocabulary in universal sign language.

His eyes twinkle. “Unverschämt,” he says. _Rude_.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.” Molly taps her ear, “Deaf, remember?”

They take up their positions again, and Molly finds him leaning into her more heavily this time.

“Why is it that every outing I’ve ever had with you has had the potential to turn into an Abbott and Costello skit?”

“Ah. Now that _is_ genetic inheritance. My entire family has a talent for the dramatic. You should meet my sister—”

For a split second Sherlock’s rhythm falters when he realises he’s said the wrong thing. But, Molly being Molly, she ignores the slip and gives him an easy out.

“Let’s try this again, shall we? Why did you crash a wedding to go dancing when there are at least a hundred places across London where you could have done the same thing without risking forcible ejection?”

His hand slides up her back, coming to rest between her bare shoulder blades. He swallows. “Today is the sixth of July.”

“Right,” says Molly. _Well, that clears everything up._

“And, I like this band. This is where they’re performing tonight.”

“So here we are?”

“So here we are.”

Over Sherlock’s shoulder, Molly looks to where the band is playing. The lights have been turned down in the ballroom and the mirror-ball above scatters dappled starlight down on them like confetti. It’s ridiculously beautiful. Ridiculously romantic.

The swell of violins is elegantly restrained. The singer is anything but: her heart pours into every joyful word as she sings of finding the one that you love. Molly keeps her eyes closed, presses herself more closely to him and just breathes, yearns. Being so close… _well, temptation is always near when she’s with him._

She feels Sherlock take a deep breath that shudders over her bare shoulder. “Why didn’t you come with John and Rosie when we went to the cake place this year?”

_“What?”_

Sherlock’s fingers twitch and flex around hers. “On my birthday. You came with us last year, but not this year.”

“I, uh, was working.”

“No. You weren’t. You spent the entire day at Meena’s.”

 _Shit_. “Sherlock—”

“We’ve never been ones for celebrating birthdays in my family,” he carries on, regardless. “Even when we do, the day of the actual celebration isn’t dictated by anything as conventional as the anniversary of a birth. An arbitrary date is picked based on what’s most convenient for everyone. The date is fluid, meaning I’ve always spent my actual birthday alone.” Sherlock’s earnest silver eyes stare down at her, piercing. “Until last year. Last year I spent it with people that I love.”

Suddenly they’re not dancing anymore. He looks hurt. “I wanted you to be there.”

“If you’d’ve asked me—”

“I didn’t think I needed to.”

“It’s just—” Molly looks away, her throat swelling as she swallows around the lump that’s forming. “I thought it might be uncomfortable for you.”

“You feel you have to avoid me?”

“It’s not like that—”

“That I wouldn’t want you there?”

“No—”

Sherlock cuts her off, throwing all appearances of detached inquiry to the wind. He closes his eyes, briefly, his brow creases in a deep frown. “Let me be plain then. I wanted you there. I will always want you there. I miss you when you’re not with me.”

The ballroom is becoming unbearably warm. Uncomfortable to the point where it seems like there’s no air left to breathe. She can’t say that she’s missed him too, it would do nothing to describe the way she’s craved him, how her heart has _ached_ for him.

Sherlock knits his brows tightly together, purses his lips. He’s resigned or resolved to something. “Today is July sixth.”

“So you’ve said.”

“It’s my half-birthday.”

“Oh—”

“If the actual date of my birth doesn’t really matter, then I choose today. I want to dance.” Over the music and chatter Molly barely hears him say, “And be with someone I love.”

She looks up at him then, and Molly’s heart is set ablaze by the way he looks at her, so uncertain but so open.

“I— I’ve taken a suite upstairs,” he clings to her as he speaks, his voice low, soft, a vulnerability in it that she’s never heard before. Cock-sure as he so often is, it takes her a moment to recognise it for what it is: _he’s terrified_. “There’s champagne on ice, and birthday cake. Dark chocolate and raspberry,” he adds as though that might be an important factor in her decision. “If you’d like to join me. To talk. Nothing more, not— Not until— There are things I need to tell you first.”

Molly reaches up, brushes a curl away from Sherlock’s eyes. For everything that has been difficult between them, the words come more easily than she could ever have imagined: _that_ , more than anything else, lets her dare to hope that things are not as broken between them as they might seem.

“I’d like that. Very much.”

Sherlock smiles – no – _beams_ at her. She realises then that they are still holding hands, that the music is still playing.

“But we have about two hours left of your half-birthday. Why don’t we dance for as long as the music lasts?”

“That would be…” he’s a little lost for words, but his tone is pure bewildered happiness, “… _wonderful_.”

Maybe it shouldn’t come as a surprise after the things he’s already said, but Sherlock touches her cheek, fingertips following the line of her jaw, and says, “Chances don’t last forever, or so I’ve been told. I thought ours had passed us by.”

It’s possible that she says something, or maybe shakes her head, Molly doesn’t know which. Perhaps it’s both because Sherlock’s lips are on hers, his breath in her mouth and her hands are on the lapels of his jacket, holding on for dear life as she kisses him too.

The band is still playing. The world is still turning. But everything – _everything_ – has changed.

 

oOo

 

Lost in stillness beside him, Molly sleeps on top of the covers, her bare legs tangled in the folds of her skirts. Lips parted, gently breathing, she sighs a sound of pure, unadulterated contentment.

During the night a storm raged and rain poured down, ending the suffocating heat. He’d barely noticed: Molly’s body next to his had set his blood on fire.

Sherlock sits up beside her and slips his jacket from his shoulders, covering her with it.

A year and half before, on Sherlock’s fortieth birthday, John had lost his temper and stumbled onto a half truth about romantic entanglements and what they meant. He thinks of that now as he rises to draw the curtains, moonlight giving way to sun in the sky over this quiet corner of London.

John may not remember or even understand, but Sherlock takes out his mobile and taps out the text to him anyway – just a few words, but they’re enough.

Then the phone is cast aside, along with his shirt, and Sherlock folds himself onto the bed beside Molly. He puts his hand in her hair, sweeping it to one side so that he can kiss the nape of her neck: her skin is warm against his lips and she sighs that beautiful sound again, completely at peace.

He closes his eyes desperate to sleep because what he really wants is to wake up next to her.

In the small twilight place between awake and not, he thinks about her in his arms, how perfect it is, how wonderful she feels, and how, _at last_ , he feels complete.


End file.
